Quotes About Expression

Watching Bernadette Peters perform is like an acting class. She's amazing.

Art is so subjective, and people can react however they want.

Designing a house is like doing a movie: Once you're done, you want to say, 'I hope you all enjoy it.'

I think there are opportunities for women in comedies - how zany is up to them.

Bethyl Ann has vomited words like she ate the dictionary.

Ian closed his eyes. Beth watched emotions flicker across his face, the uncertainty, the stubbornness, the raw pain he'd lived with for so long. He didn't always know how to express his emotions, but that didn't mean he didn't feel them deeply.

Her brain's response was, Oh, goody! What came out of her mouth was, "Gunh?

Why were all the idioms about being strong male-related?

I love you," he said. Beth caught her breath, and sudden tears blurred her vision. "Love you," Ian repeated. His gaze bore into hers harder than Hart's ever could hope to. "Love you, love you, loveyou, loveyou, loveyouloveyouloveyou . . ." "Ian." Beth laughed.

It behooves all of us to have everyone experience their deepest, most beautiful, most profound and powerful self, because those people are more apt to give their gift to everyone else rather than shudder in fear.

The decadent artist markets other people's pain

He sighed and smiled and touched my nose. 'Words! You funny thing! Words! Verbigation! You know you will spoil everything if you have to verbalize about it. Words never work properly. Life is difficult, subtle, complex. Life, as Lawrence might say, is a 'winged gift'. Words are always inadequate to express the complexity of a situation.

I listened as the words became sentences and the sentences became pages and the pages became feelings and voices and places and people.

It's a good thing you and your pills weren't around a few hundred years ago or there never would have been a Vermeer or a Caravaggio. You'd have drugged "Girl with a Pearl Earring" and "The Taking of Christ" right the hell out of them.

But words are more powerful than anything.

I play until my fingertips are raw. Until I rip a nail and bleed on the strings. Until my hands hurt so bad I forget my heart does.

On those nights, the words were for me alone. They came up unbidden from my heart. They spilled over my tongue and spilled out my mouth. And because of them, I, who was nothing and nobody, was a prince of Denmark, a maid of Verona, a queen of Egypt. I was a sour misanthrope, a beetling hypocrite, a conjurer's daughter, a mad and murderous king.

Make them care, Mattie,' she said softly. 'And don't you ever be sorry.' -Emily Wilcox

Writers are damned liars. Every single one of them.

Come on you raver, you seer of visions, come on you painter, you piper, you prisoner, and shine...

Yet I had such joy from the words.

She wanted to scream her grief to the skies and wail like an animal, but she couldn't.

I take a seat high above the BQE, stare at Manhatten for a bit, and then I play. For hours. I play until my fingertips are raw. Until I rip a nail and bleed on the strings. Until my hands hurt so bad I forget my heart does.

Voice, according to Miss Wilcox, is not just the sound that comes from your throat but the feeling that comes from your words